


A Sound That Only You Can Hear

by enigmaticblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-14
Updated: 2010-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:19:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean plays his music twice as loud now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sound That Only You Can Hear

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hc_bingo prompt “loss of hearing.” The title is from the K’s Choice song of the same name.

“I don’t think you should go with me.” Sam speaks loudly and clearly—a little too loudly, his lips exaggerating each word. Dean might be hard of hearing now, but he’s not _that_ hard of hearing, which Sam would know if he gave a damn.

Dean has been waiting for this moment for the last few months, ever since Cas’ brothers staged a mutiny, stripped Cas of his powers, and ruined Dean’s hearing. Sam’s soul is still in the Pit, and Dean isn’t the hunter he used to be.

 

Dean puts up a token protest. “I can hunt, Sam.”

 

“You’re a liability,” Sam says reasonably, logically, and Dean decides he hates this version of Sam, who isn’t influenced by emotion. Sam is all about the bottom line these days, and while he’s put up with Dean’s presence until now, he’s never welcomed it. “You can’t hear anyone sneaking up on you, and I need to shout for you to hear me. That doesn’t work on a hunt, Dean.”

 

Dean can’t argue with Sam’s assertion. When he’d woken in the emergency room months ago, there had been a ringing in his ears that had never gone away. He hadn’t been all that surprised when the doctor said “irreversible damage” and “permanent hearing loss.”

 

Just like right now, Dean isn’t terribly surprised that Sam is dumping his ass.

 

“So, what?” Dean asks. He argues because it’s expected of him, not because he thinks it will do any good. “You’re just leaving me behind? What if we get a line on how to get your soul?”

 

“Then you’ll call me, and we’ll figure it out.” Sam shrugs, as though it’s no big deal, and Dean knows that Sam doesn’t give a rat’s ass about getting his soul back. “We’ll get it figured out eventually, Dean.”

 

“Eventually” isn’t good enough as far as Dean’s concerned, but he’s given up on Sam caring at this point. Sam—at least this version of him—is impervious to any kind of criticism, and Dean knows from experience that there’s nothing he can say that will get through.

 

In truth, Dean’s tired of trying. The last year has worn him out, and worn him down, and the hearing loss merely compounds the hurt. Dean can’t work up the energy to try these days, and it goes against the grain to give up, but he’s gotten used to a lot of things over the past few months.

 

He hates it, and he hates that they’re having this conversation in Bobby’s living room with Bobby looking on, but there’s nothing to be done about it.

 

Dean waves Sam off, not even bothering to reply. He knows from experience that Sam will go off and kill whatever monster of the week he’s got a line on without a second thought for Dean.

 

So, Dean walks out of the house, heading for the Impala, leaving Sam and Bobby behind—and the nice thing about being hard of hearing is that it makes it a lot easier to ignore people saying things he doesn’t want to hear. Unless Sam or Bobby physically stops him, Dean can just keep walking, and he does.

 

His car hasn’t changed, though, and she’s not even holding a grudge for leaving her under a tarp all those months when Sam was gone. He pops the hood and peers at the engine, trying to discover by sight and feel what he once would have heard.

 

Dean is used to relying on his hearing to sense problems with a vehicle, but he’s recently noticed a change in the vibration of the Impala’s engine. Dean knows his car by heart, and he knows that something is off just by the way she feels when he starts her up.

 

The problem isn’t immediately obvious, and Dean turns to the ancient boom box sitting behind him and cranks up the volume. The individual notes of the guitar riffs of the Stones’ “Paint It Black” are indistinct, but Dean can recognize the song, and he knows it by heart. Each note is clear as a bell inside his head, even if his hearing is fucked up.

 

Dean glances up when he sees motion out of the corner of his eye and watches Sam leave with a spray of gravel from Bobby’s drive. Apparently, Sam is doing his best to leave without speaking to Dean, and Dean’s okay with that.

 

He’s come to accept a whole hell of a lot that he would have fought tooth and nail, but Dean chalks it up to being more fucked up than ever before.

 

Dean starts as a hand appears in his field of vision, and he bites off a curse at his inability to stifle his surprise.

 

A couple of years ago, Sam would have dealt with that weakness, found ways around it, found a way to change it, but now he’s cut Dean loose. He can’t deal with weakness, and so he tries to ignore Dean. Bobby thinks Dean would rather be alone, because that’s what he’d want, so he stays away.

 

And Cas—well, Cas doesn’t much care about what Dean wants. He’s more concerned with what Dean _needs_.

 

Cas waits until Dean glances up to say, “Hello.”

 

Dean nods, and Castiel hands him a beer before turning down the music, even though it won’t make much difference.

 

“What’s up?” Dean asks after taking a long pull from the bottle.

 

Cas smiles. “I just thought you could use a beer.”

 

Cas enunciates his words, too—speaking slowly and clearly, so that Dean can easily distinguish the words, speaking just loudly enough for Dean to hear him. The difference is that Cas doesn’t seem to have changed his standard operating procedure. It’s not a big deal with Cas the way it is with Sam or Bobby.

 

“I can always use a beer,” Dean replies, after another deep draught. “Thanks.”

 

“We’re going to find a way to get Sam’s soul back,” Cas promises.

 

Dean glances away, and then looks back at Cas. “Sam doesn’t want his soul back, Cas.”

 

Cas shrugs eloquently and takes a drink from his own bottle. “You can’t be surprised by that.”

 

Dean can’t do something else while holding a conversation anymore; he has to focus on the other person’s voice, on each individual word, and he can’t afford distractions. It’s easier when the other person focuses the same kind of attention on him.

 

Sam mostly remembers to look at Dean while he’s speaking these days, but it’s taken him months to get there. Cas, on the other hand, seems to respond by instinct—he focuses on Dean, and Dean alone, when speaking.

 

But then, Dean thinks, that isn’t anything new, and he’s more comforted by that fact than he wants to admit.

 

Dean shakes his head. “No, I’m not surprised. Who would choose the pain over peace?”

 

“You would,” Cas replies with perfect assurance.

 

Dean snorts, but Cas is right. He _would_ choose the pain over the disconnection Sam has with the rest of the world. But Dean doesn’t want to talk about it, so he sets his beer aside to focus on his car.

 

Cas apparently isn’t done with him, because he hovers somewhere just inside Dean’s peripheral vision, making it impossible for Dean to focus on the engine.

 

“What do you need, Cas?” Dean finally asks, turning to look at Cas with a raised eyebrow.

 

Cas doesn’t say anything; he just grabs a handful of Dean’s t-shirt and pulls Dean closer, his mouth finding Dean’s with unerring accuracy.

 

Practice makes perfect, Dean thinks, and he grins against Cas’ lips.

 

“What?” Cas growls.

 

“Just thinking that we should get some more practice in,” Dean replies.

 

“I’d be happy to help with that,” Cas acknowledges. “But we might want to move this conversation somewhere else.”

 

Dean glances towards the backseat of the car. “You say the sweetest things.”

 

“I try,” Cas replies. “You don’t like to do this in Bobby’s house.”

 

“We should probably get our own place,” Dean agrees. “I just didn’t know what Sam would do.”

 

“I think we can safely say that Sam doesn’t care what we do.” Cas tugs Dean towards the backseat. “Dean, please.”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

And this is what keeps Dean going—not that he would admit it out loud, but that’s how he feels. Cas has lost everything—his wings, his position within the heavenly ranks, _everything_ —and he still wants Dean.

 

It’s a heady feeling, to be the focus of someone else’s world.

 

Dean rides that high into the backseat, and Cas’ hands are everywhere, touching Dean’s face, brushing his neck and running down his chest, his arms. Cas wears a reverent expression, just like the first time they’d fucked in an abandoned house.

 

Cas doesn’t speak; he just presses his face to the side of Dean’s neck, and Dean can feel the rough burn of stubble against the sensitive skin.

 

There’s not a lot of room for two grown men, and it’s been more than a week, so they’re both a little desperate, a little rushed. Dean pushes his hips up so he can shove his jeans and underwear down, and then he does the same for Cas. The fabric bunches around their knees, and their feet tangle, and it should be ridiculous.

 

It _is_ ridiculous, but Dean finds an angle to give them both the friction they need, and they fall into a rhythm. And it’s so good that Dean can’t think about how stupid they look; all he can do is _feel_ —Cas’ rough cheek against his neck, Cas’ fingers digging into Dean’s shoulders, Cas’ sweat-slick skin against his chest where their shirts ride up.

 

Dean has always liked the sounds of sex, but his hearing is just one more thing he’s lost, and it’s not even close to being the worst grief he’s borne. But when Cas comes, it’s with a soft exhalation of breath that Dean feels, and Dean wishes that he could hear Cas’ sex-roughened voice clearly, without the constant ringing in his ears. He wishes they’d done this before other angels had screwed him up, so that he could have just one memory of how Cas sounds after they’ve fucked.

 

Sometimes, Dean thinks that Cas deserves more than this—more than shitty motel rooms and cramped backseats and stolen moments with someone as fucked up as Dean is. Sometimes, Dean thinks that maybe _he_ deserves more, even just one night in a real bed to fuck Cas until they’re both exhausted and sated.

 

Then Cas lifts his head, his lips curling in a satisfied smile before he leans in to kiss Dean, long and slow and lazy.

 

And sometimes, Dean thinks, what they’ve got is enough.


End file.
